A study in control
by Ms.Dawes
Summary: It's either thunderous rage or a complete loss of inhibitions, can't be both at the same time right? (Demon dean during 10x03, His issues of self control)


Summary: It's either thunderous rage or a complete loss of inhibitions, can't be both at the same time right? (Demon dean)

Notes: takes place during episode three of season 10. Now no one loves regular Dean as much as I do, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with being regular Dean, but I had high hopes for the show to become dark and dangerous (in a good way) and this was seen happening to an extent with Demon Dean on the loose. And then it ended abruptly really, which just saddened me I would have settled for irredeemable Dean at this point after a couple of lacklustre seasons (I know some won't agree, but you know it's true, you know it!)

Anyway, this is my take on Demon Dean, as he struggles with the MOC and his inner demon.

**A study in control**

Mayhem in the club - The stripper

She hid in the spare changing room, behind the stage after all hell had broken loose; cowering in the cramped room full of mucked up jackets, spangly clothes, and an overpowering combination of cheap leather and some expensively, exotic perfume. It seemed like there wasn't enough time to reach into any of the jacket pockets and try to find a phone to alert the police that the creepy jackass pawing her on stage, who she'd quickly written off as just another rude jackass, indifferent to the club's rules, was actually a complete psycho, beating the shit out of the male bouncers in the club.

Earlier she had told him the dance was over, he'd attempted to reach over and drag her back to the pole forcefully. The problem was 'this' guy was aching to throw a punch before anyone even touched him. He had the look of a guy whose hands were itching for some kind of unrestrained violence, she could see that from the tense arching of his muscled shoulders, the smug smirk that punctuated an assertion, 'I-get-whatever-the-fuck-I-want', that and the dark, broody look in eyes, devoid of a simple man's interest in a strip club.

There was a loud crash of a heavy glass, and then a fleshy thud, followed by desperate gasping nearby…someone was dying. Ronnie? Or Dale?

Which of them was it? She didn't dare open the door for a slight peek. As much as she loved Dale and Ronnie, she didn't want to risk catching the psycho's eye. Mostly, because the psycho winked at her while she tried to get out of the way of the punches being thrown around and told her to stick around, 'You owe me a dance sweetheart…'

And she ran screaming to find a place to hide.

The other girls… Cindy and Bradley, had already made a beeline for the brightly lit exit- near the bar, leaving her to battle the stuffed closet alone. The problem was…the exit seemed too far away for her shaky knees and cold feet. She felt trapped in the damn changing room, fearing claustrophobia might take over soon.

God dammit, why did she have to turn down her mother's offer to help her rent. She could have just swallowed her pride a couple of months and attended beauty school, maybe gotten a job at a hair or nail place like some of her other friends!? She would have been far away from this mayhem and in some safe hell-hole that just got her by, day to day. Her mother's been on her case for years now, telling her she can't get by, by just shaking her spectacular ass forever.

Another crunch of wood and glass, followed by a low, wandering whistle that snaked across her skin in the form of goose bumps, as she shivered silently in her tight, sparkly bikini top and denim jeans. What did those magazines say you should do in these situations? Say few hail mary's ? Play dead? Look for weapons? Or was it, think about good times? She did have a good memory which instantly materialised in her mind when she and Ben Pfeiffer had gotten lost in the hay bale maze, alone, at midnight, in their town. They hadn't worried about being lost because they liked each other too damn much and as the night deepened, they got friskier. That was the only time no one at home had called out on her misdemeanours and now she as stuck between a rock and a murderous psycho who was kicking open doors in the distance. She couldn't hear any piercing sirens in the distance, indicating help coming any time soon. The door kicking pace, coupled with the low whistling felt too calm and measured. He was looking for her. Oh shit!

Her knees buckled and she just fell onto the floor in a tangled heap, feeling the sharp ends of her heels digging into the back of her thighs. After a few deft moments of complete silence, 'cherry pie' blared up again and fear throttled her enough to root around for something she could use as a weapon in the tiny closet.

A quiet place - Dean

Crowley was nagging him again about Lester. That precious commodity of a soul lost because he couldn't control the raging demon inside him and because it was too goddamn easy to snuff the life out of a poor, down on his luck, idiot who happened to be a misogynistic fuck too. Dean wasn't really all that judgemental since his 'change'. He was open to new things on the wrong side of tracks and didn't mind the selfish prick who wanted to get his wife killed for banging what's-his-face on her kitchen counter top. No, he actually felt sorry for Lester the loser, who lost his soul and made a deal with the devil without even considering the 'hell' he'd be going through once the hounds came for him when his time was up. It's his particular level of stupidity Dean couldn't quite stand.

When he shoved the blade into Lester's chest, he only felt pure satisfaction of sating his blood lust. He hadn't really felt bad or particularly right about it. In fact, after he finished washing the blood clean off of that magnificent first blade, his only thought was how he'd saved the dumb bastard a one way to hell. No Lester, no deal, no soul…just a giant poof of nothing to nobody. And now, after a few weeks of repeated hissy fits over voice mails, Crowley seemed to have calmed down. He was like an old wife who needed constant assuring that she wasn't nagging sag who ruined Dean's fun. He wanted Dean to redeem their friendship and secure him a soul to make up for Lester.

Naturally, Dean told him to screw himself and hung up with the king of hell's parting gift, 'By the way, you're brothers found you….might want to skedaddle from that motel'

No, he didn't like when Crowley tried to pull rank over something he had no hope of controlling, but he felt the demon inside making wisps of suggestions, reminding him, it had felt good to kill Lester, it had felt good to pummel some nameless strangers in the strip club for so much as getting in his way. The voices reminded Dean that he wasn't just Dean anymore, he felt full of dark themes and thoughts that never had a chance to bubble to the surface before. He felt stronger, smug, and like he fitted his name better somehow. As if the Dean before was just an imitation killer. He was the real deal. Hunter-cold blooded killer, the perfect combo that drew fear and hopefully told people and non-people alike to stay the hell out of his way. And he'd just brought that cherry pie from the strip club and zip tied her to a rusted four post bed in an abandoned building in the next town.

He mostly ignored the 5 minute long monologue from the king of hell about missed opportunities and life's little disappointments, but the comment about his brother within sparring distance did catch his attention. And he decided that the seedy motels had to go. He wanted his own space, that wasn't full of talisman's, holy symbols on walls, or tricky and booby trapped like the men of letters bunker. The solitary darkness of the empty halls soothed him like no stiff drink could these days. Even better with a stiff drink in his hand.

The cherry pie was still 'out'. They hadn't exactly exchanged why's and who's when she stumbled out of the small closet at the strip club, pale and shaking, with the pointy edge of the wire hanger pointed at him. It came too easy to him, 'cherry pie' blaring all over the silenced club, and the spunky stripper's insistence, he leave her alone. If she hadn't made a swing at him and called him a psychotic son-of-a-bitch, he might have just left it, with giving him another dozen pole dances in her scared shitless state. But she'd tried to slice at him pointlessly with the bent hanger and it had enraged him more than her insistence that he not touch her. He'd smiled low and cruel then, smirking at the idea of a stripper not wanting someone to touch her. The single, sharp backhand just knocked her into the wall.

As a rule, Dean didn't hit women-unless they were inhuman, evil scum, and he didn't need to be inappropriate to get attention either, but somehow his demon awakening seemed to have changed more in him then noticeable, physically and his desire to be indifferent to other demonites out there. Now, women squirmed and shifted their gazes away if he stared too long; it was as though he'd lost his alter boy charm or whatever it was that got the ladies swooning over him. Instead, there was a demon glow about him that warned others of his in human state, his unholy thoughts, or his murderous rage tucked under him like an unlikely secret. Oh he could turn on the charm, but it seemed far too much effort lately, and he just wanted to be fucked no questions asked.

The cherry pie was stirring, her head moving from side to side restlessly in sleep. He'd given her a sedative once he brought her here, not entirely sure of where or when he stole the few vials. Maybe some torture protocol he'd planned with Crowley and hadn't gotten around to using… he could be a lazy bastard. She was still wearing the red and blue sparkling bikini top and those low riding short denim shorts with the button open. He felt a sudden tug of lust and an almost involuntary urge to caress her thigh…almost.

Then his cell phone vibrated in his jeans pocket, making him draw out a long sigh, already knowing who would be calling him. Fishing it out of his pocket he checked the called id and it said Sam. His ever optimistic, sullen baby bro who had got it into his head that he could bring back the Dean he knew and liked.

Dean watched the brunette stripper struggling to wake up, the men he'd pretty much beaten to death in the club, and Crowley's grating insistence he does some productive destruction, and inadvertently of the idea that he could be redeemed somehow, if Sammy caught up with him, and then threw his phone to the hard ground, stepping neatly on the phone with his full weight, effectively crushing it's well-meaning mechanics and silencing his brothers insistence need to save him.


End file.
